LITERARY | Sometimes I Wish Not To Be Happy

I remember the first time I learned that happiness never comes alone. I was still young, still believing that smiles were endings and not pauses. Back then, I thought being happy meant you had finally arrived—that once you reached it, you could stay there, untouched. No one warned me that happiness is only a visitor, and that it always leaves something broken when it goes.

As I grew older, I began to notice the pattern. Every time I laughed too freely, something followed—a loss, a goodbye, a silence that stretched longer than it should. Every moment that felt warm eventually cooled, and every joy carried a quiet threat: this will not last. It was as if life was teaching me balance, trading joy for grief, light for shadow, reminding me that nothing is ever given without something being taken away.

Sometimes, sadness comes before happiness, like a test of endurance. You suffer, you break, you survive—and only then are you allowed a brief moment to breathe. Other times, happiness comes first, soft and convincing, only to be taken back with interest. Those moments hurt the most. They teach you how high your heart can rise, just so you will feel how far it can fall.

So now, there are days when I wish not to be happy anymore. Not because I despise joy, but because I am tired of what follows it. I am exhausted from loving deeply only to mourn deeply too. I am weary of smiling while already bracing myself for the pain I know will come after. Happiness has taught me how to grieve, and grief has taught me how fragile happiness really is.

I do not dream of a life filled with laughter anymore. I dream of a life that is gentle. A life that does not demand tears as payment for a moment of light. If being happy means I must always pass through sadness and grief, then maybe I would rather remain in the middle—numb, steady, untouched.

Sometimes, I wish not to be happy. I wish only to wake up without the fear that today’s joy will become tomorrow’s sorrow. I wish for a heart that does not ache so much from remembering how good things once felt. I wish, above all, for the simple grace of not hurting anymore.